Elegy for a Lost Star

  Elegy for a Lost Star

  The Symphony of Ages Books by Elizabeth Haydon

  Rhapsody: Child of Blood

  Prophecy: Child of Earth

  Destiny: Child of the Sky

  Requiem for the Sun

  Elegy for a Lost Star

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  For my adopted siblings

  Daughter of the Earthly Garden

  Son of the Sea

  for all they’ve done

  to keep it going

  with love

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Many thanks to three sets of innkeepers whose hospitality was inspirational in the places I visited while researching this book:

  The Taste of Alaska Lodge, Fairbanks, Alaska

  Quagmire Manor, Homer, New York

  King’s Inn, Huntsville, Alabama

  ODE

  WE are the music-makers,

  And we are the dreamers of dreams,

  Wandering by lone sea-breakers,

  And sitting by desolate streams;

  World-losers and world-forsakers,

  On whom the pale moon gleams:

  Yet we are the movers and shakers

  Of the world for ever, it seems.

  With wonderful deathless ditties

  We build up the world’s great cities,

  And out of a fabulous story

  We fashion an empire’s glory:

  One man with a dream, at pleasure,

  Shall go forth and conquer a crown;

  And three with a new song’s measure

  Can trample an empire down.

  We, in the ages lying

  In the buried past of the earth,

  Built Nineveh with our sighing,

  And Babel itself with our mirth;

  And o’erthrew them with prophesying

  To the old of the new world’s worth;

  For each age is a dream that is dying,

  Or one that is coming to birth.

  —Arthur O’Shaughnessy

  Seven Gifts of the Creator,

  Seven colors of light

  Seven seas in the wide world,

  Seven days in a sennight,

  Seven months of fallow

  Seven continents trod, weave

  Seven eras of history

  In the eye of God.

  SONG OF THE SKY LOOM

  Oh, our Mother the Earth;

  Oh, our Father the Sky,

  Your children are we,

  With tired backs.

  We bring you the gifts you love.

  Then weave for us a garment of brightness. . . .

  May the warp be the white light of morning,

  May the weft be the red light of evening,

  May the fringes be the fallen rain,

  May the border be the standing rainbow.

  Thus weave for us a garment of brightness

  That we may walk fittingly where birds sing;

  That we may walk fittingly where the grass is green.

  Oh, Our Mother Earth;

  Oh, Our Father Sky.

  —Traditional, Tewa

  THE WEAVER’S LAMENT

  Time, it is a tapestry

  Threads that weave it number three

  These be known, from first to last,

  Future, Present, and the Past

  Present, Future, weft-thread be

  Fleeting in inconstancy

  Yet the colors they do add

  Serve to make the heart be glad

  Past, the warp-thread that it be

  Sets the path of history

  Every moment ’neath the sun

  Every battle, lost or won

  Finds its place within the lee

  Of Time’s enduring memory

  Fate, the weaver of the bands

  Holds these threads within Her hands

  Plaits a rope that in its use

  Can be a lifeline, net—or noose.

  Contents

  Title

  Copyright Notice

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Maps

  Ode

  Song of the Sky Loom

  The Weaver’s Lament

  The Awakening

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  The Hunt

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  The Slaughter

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  43

  44

  45

  46

  47

  48

  Copyright

  1

  YLORC

  When the mountain peak of Gurgus exploded, the vibrations coursed through the foundations of the earth.

  Above ground, the debris field from the blast stretched for miles, ranging from boulder-sized rubble at the base of the peak to fragments of sand that littered the steppes more than a league away. In between, shards of colored glass from windows that had once been inlaid in the mountain’s hollow summit lay like a broken rainbow, glittering in the sun beneath an intermittent layer of sparkling dust.

  Below ground, a small band of Firbolg soldiers felt the concussion rumble beneath their feet, though they were some miles east of Gurgus. A few moments of stillness passed as dust settled to the floor of the tunnel. When Krarn finally released the breath he was holding, the rest of his patrol shook off their torpor and resumed their duties. The Sergeant-Major would flay them alive if they let something as small as a tremor keep them from their appointed rounds.

  A few days later, the soldiers reluctantly emerged under a cloudless sky, having reached the farthest extent of this section of their tunnel system, and the end of their patrol route.

  Krarn stood on the rim of the craterlike ruins of the Moot, a meeting place from ancient times, now dark with coal ash and considered haunted. Nothing but the howl of the wind greeted him; no one lived in the rocky foothills that stretched into steppes, then out to the vast Krevensfield Plain beyond.

  Having finished their sweep of the area, his men had quietly assembled behind him. Krarn was about to order them back into the tunnels when the hairs on his back—from his neck to his belt—stood on end.

  It began as the faintest of rumblings in the ground. The tremors were not enough to be noticed on their own, but Krarn noted the trembling of vegetation, the slightest of changes in the incessantly dry landscape, little more than the disturbance that a strong breeze might make. He knew that it was no wind that caused this disturbance; it had come from the earth.

 
Silently ordering his men into a skirmish line, Krarn scanned the area, looking for any more signs. After a few minutes, the feeling passed, and the earth settled into stillness again. Nothing but wind sighed through the tall grass.

  “Aftershocks,” he muttered to himself.

  With a shake of his head, Krarn led his men back into the tunnels.

  And in so doing, missed the chance to sound a warning of what was to come.

  As the days passed, the tremors grew stronger.

  The surface of the Moot, baked to a waterless shell by the summer sun, began to split slightly, thin cracks spreading over the landscape like the spidery pattern on a mirror that had broken but not shattered.

  Then came steam, the slightest of puffs of rancid smoke rising up ominously from the ground beneath the tiny cracks.

  By day it was almost impossible to see, had eyes been in the locality to see it. By night it mixed with the hot haze coming off the ground and, caught by the wind, wafted aloft, blending with the low-hanging clouds.

  Finally came the eruption.

  Waves of shock rolled through the earth as if it were the sea, waves that intensified, growing stronger. The earth began to move, to rise in some places, shifting in its underground strata.

  Then, with a terrifying lunge, it ripped apart.

  The rumbling beneath the surface suddenly took on movement. It started outside of Ylorc but traveled quickly. It was heading north.

  Unerringly, determinedly north, toward the icy land of the Hintervold.

  All along the eastern rim of the mountains, then westward across the plains, a movement within the ground could be felt, a shifting so violent that it sent aftershocks through the countryside, uprooting trees and splitting crevasses into the sides of rolling hills, causing children miles away to wake in the night, shaking with fear.

  Their mothers held them close, soothing them. “It’s nothing, little one,” they said, or uttered some similar words in whatever language they were accustomed to speaking. “The ground trembles from time to time, but it will settle and go quiet again. See? It is gone already. There is nothing to fear.”

  And then it was gone.

  The children nestled their heads against their mother’s shoulders, their eyes bright in the darkness, knowing on some level that the shivering they had felt was more than the ripples of movement in the crust of the world. Someone listening closely enough might sense, beyond the trembling passage, a deeper answer from below the ground.

  Much deeper below.

  As if the earth itself was listening.

  Deep within her tomb of charred earth, the dragon had felt the aftershocks of the explosion of the mountain peak.

  Her awareness, dormant for years, hummed with slight static, just enough to tickle the edges of her unconscious mind, which had hibernated since her internment in the grave of melted stone and fire ash in the ancient Moot.

  At first the sensation nauseated her and she fought it off numbly, struggling to sink back into the peaceful oblivion of deathlike sleep. Then, when oblivion refused to return, she began to grow fearful, disoriented in a body she didn’t remember.

  After a few moments the fear turned to dread, then deepened into terror.

  As the whispers of alarm rippled over her skin it unsettled the ground around her grave, causing slight waves of shock to reverberate through the earth around and above her. She distantly sensed the presence of the coterie of Firbolg guards from Ylorc, the mountainous realm that bordered the grave, who had come to investigate the tremors, but was too disoriented to know what they were.

  And then they were gone, leaving her mind even more confused.

  The dragon roiled in her sepulcher of scorched earth, shifting from side to side, infinitesimally. She did not have enough control of her conscious thought to move more than she could inhale, and her breath, long stilled into the tiniest of waves, was too shallow to mark.

  The earth, the element from which her kind had sprung, pressed down on her, squeezing the air from her, sending horrific scenes of suffocation through her foggy mind.

  And then, after what seemed to her endless time in the clutches of horror, into this chaos of thought and confused sensation a beacon shone, the clear, pure light of her innate dragon sense. Hidden deep in the rivers of her ancient blood, old as she was old, the inner awareness that had been her weapon and her bane all of her forgotten life began to rise, clearing away the conundrum, settling the panic, cell by cell, nerve by nerve, bringing clarity in tiny moments, like pieces of an enormous puzzle coming together, or a picture that was slowly gaining focus.

  And with the approaching clarity came a guarded calm.

  The dragon willed herself to breathe easier, and in willing it, caused it to happen.

  She still did not comprehend her form. In her sleep-tangled mind she was a woman still, of human flesh and shape, not wyrm, not beast, not serpentine, and so she was baffled by her girth, her heft, the inability of her arms and legs to function, to push against the ground as they once had. Her confusion was compounded by this disconnection between mind, body, and memory, a dark stage on which no players had yet come to appear. All she could recall in her limited consciousness was the sense of falling endlessly in fire that had struck her from above, and blazed below her as she fell.

  Hot, she thought hazily. Burning. I’m burning.

  But of course she was not. The blast of flame that had taken her from the sky had been quenched more than three years before, had sizzled into smoky ash covering the thick coalbed that lined her tomb, baking it hard and dry in its dying.

  Fighting her disorientation, the dragon waited, letting her inner sense sort through the jumble, inhaling a bit more deeply with each breath, remaining motionless, letting the days pass, marking time only by the heat she could feel through the earth when the sun was high above her tomb, and the cooling of night, which lasted only a short while before the warmth returned.

  Must be summer’s end, she mused, the only cognizant thought to take hold.

  Until another image made its way onto the dark stage.

  It was a place of stark white, a frozen land of jagged peaks and all but endless winter. In the tight containment of the tomb the memory of expansiveness returned; she recalled staring up at a night sky blanketed with cold stars, the human form she had once inhabited, and still inhabited in her mind, tiny and insignificant in the vastness of the snowy mountains all around her.

  A single word formed in her mind.

  Home.

  With the word came the will.

  As the puzzle solidified, as the picture became clearer, her dragon sense was able to ascertain direction, even beneath the ground. With each new breath the dragon turned herself by inches until, after time uncounted, she sensed she was pointed north-northwest. Across the miles she could feel it calling, her lair, her stronghold, though the details of what it was were still scattered.

  It mattered not.

  Once oriented in the correct direction, she set off, crawling through the earth, still believing herself to be human, dragging a body that did not respond the way she expected it to relentlessly forward, resolute in her intent, slowly gaining speed and strength, until the ground around her began to cool, signaling to her that home was near. Then, with a burst of renewed resolve, she bore through the crust of the earth, up through the blanket of permafrost, hurtling out of the ground in a shower of cracking ice and flying snow, to fall heavily onto the white layer that covered the earth like a frozen scab, breathing shallowly, rapidly, ignoring the sting of the cold.

  She lay motionless for a long while beneath that endless night sky blanketed with stars, thought and reason returning with her connection to this land, this place to which she had been exiled, in which she had made her lair. The dragon inhaled the frosty wind, allowing it to slowly cleanse her blackened lungs as the dragon sense in her blood was cleansing her mind.

  And along with thought and reason, something else returned as well, burning hot at the edges
of her memory, unclear, but unmistakable, growing in clarity and intensity with each moment.

  The fury of revenge.

  2

  The king of the mountainous realm was away when the peak exploded.

  A man born as an accidental by-product of depravity and despair, of mixed bloodlines that came from the earth and the wind, his skin was almost magically sensitive, a network of traceries of exposed nerves and surface veins. He was, as a result, innately aware of the vibrations in the wind that others defined as Life, could oftentimes tell when things were not as they should be, when something was disturbing the natural order of the earth, especially the earth that was his domain. Had he been in his kingdom when the wyrm awoke from her sleep, he would have known it.

  But Achmed the Snake, king of the Firbolg and lord of the realm of Ylorc, was half a continent away, traveling overland on his way home when it came to pass.

  So, like his subjects, the guards who walked the edge of the grave itself, he missed the chance to intervene, to stop what was to come.

  And, by chance, because of a weapon of his own design, the cwellan, which he had adapted just for the purpose of penetrating the hide of a dragon, he alone might have been able to do so while the wyrm lay in her sepulcher, prone and disoriented. His weapon had drawn her blood before.

  By the time he returned home, the beast was long gone.

  His mission in the west accomplished, he had chosen to return to his kingdom in the eastern mountains alone, riding the same route as the guarded mail caravans, but refusing to wait to travel with them in the safety of numbers. In addition to his natural tendency of isolation, his complete disdain for the majority of the human race, and his desire not to be slowed down in his return by traveling with others, Achmed needed time alone to think.

  The heat of summer’s end was waning as he traveled the trans-Orlandan thoroughfare, the roadway built during the most prosperous days of the previous empire. The thoroughfare bisected the land of Roland from the seacoast to the edge of the Manteids, the mountains known as the Teeth, where he now reigned. The cooling of the season and the fresh wind that came with it gave him a clear head, allowing him to sort through all he had experienced.